


Unrepentant Sinners

by foggys_cupcake_girl, redreaper86



Category: The Original Sinners - Tiffany Reisz
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, BDSM, Bondage, Caning, Duct Tape Kink, Flogging, Fluff and Smut, Gags, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mild Painplay, Multiple Orgasms, My First Smut, Past Child Abuse, Polyamory, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Rough Kissing, Safeword Use, Safewords, Sexual Humor, Spanking, St. Andrew's Cross, Threesome - M/M/M, Tickling, and Catholic jokes, sooo much sexual humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:06:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28626978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foggys_cupcake_girl/pseuds/foggys_cupcake_girl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/redreaper86/pseuds/redreaper86
Summary: In which, gorgeous bi switch, Griffin, and his adorable butler/concubine, Alfred, take in sweet Dom-in-training Michael.Chaos, hilarity and sexiness ensues.
Relationships: Griffin Fiske/Alfred Jamison, Michael Dimir/Alfred Jamison, Michael Dimir/Griffin Fiske, Michael Dimir/Griffin Fiske/Alfred Jamison
Comments: 18
Kudos: 6





	1. Griffin

**Author's Note:**

> Basically Griffin is young!Colin Farrell, Alfred is Paul Dano as a very sassy butler, and Michael is Ezra Miller. I have no exuses, or shame, apparently. 
> 
> Enjoy <3

Griffin Randolph Fiske, New York’s richest trust fund baby, Calvin Klein underwear model, and all around disaster bi, was doing some serious thinking.

And as always, when Griffin was thinking, he was talking.

And bouncing around the living room on his pogo stick.

And annoying the ever-loving brains out of his butler/concubine, who was attempting (and being repeatedly thwarted by his Master) to straighten up the place which was a horrendous mess from the orgy last night.

“I just don’t get what Nora’s thinking, bringing the kid here,” Griffin bounced right into his butler’s path, causing the latter to leap gracefully backwards to avoid a collision. “I mean, I’m terrible with kids. I can’t even remember the time when I was that kid’s age. How old is he, again?”

Griffin’s ‘butler’ did not answer. Throwing a poisonous glance of extreme distain upon his still-bouncing ‘employer,’ the slim young man in the butler’s livery turned his back on him and continued spraying the twelve section black leather couch with anti-bacterial spray and wiping energetically at the suspicious-looking stains thereon.

“Alfred?” Griffin prompted, bouncing again.

No answer.

“Al? Alfie? Alfredo?” With each bastardization of Alfred’s name, Griffin bounced closer to his ‘butler,’ whose butt was hoisted fetchingly in the air as he sanitized the defiled couch.

Highly miffed at being so thoroughly ignored, Griffin tossed his pogo stick aside to clatter against the marble floor, then seized Alfred by the hips, causing him to straighten up with an indignant squawk.

“Master Griffin,” Alfred began, whirling around to face his ‘employer, “you are a vile, loathsome _cad_ and I -- mmf!”

Griffin sealed the rest of the litany of abuse behind Alfred’s lips with his own. Alfred struggled a little, making prissy little moans of protest against Griffin’s mouth. Not real I-want-you-to-stop-right-now protest but oh-this-is-so-improper protest. But the squirt bottle and rag dropped out of Alfred’s gloved hands, and Griffin figured he must be doing something right. He gripped the other man’s waist pulling him close against his own naked broad chest, for Griffin was wearing nothing but a pair of the Calvin Kline’s he modeled for. Alfred’s white gloves slid up Griffin’s muscled arms, the biceps tattooed with five rings of Celtic symbols, up to cup Griffin’s face.

Their kiss eventually broke with a tiny pop, their faces still brushing, their eyelashes meshed.

Alfred’s comely mouth curved upward. “I loathe you, Sir,” he whispered.

“I loathe you too, Alfred,” Griffin murmured between kisses down Alfred’s neck. “But you still haven’t answered my question…” his hand slipped down the front of Alfred’s trousers, cupping him between the legs, “…how old is the kid Nora’s bringing over here?”

Alfred sighed and rolled his eyes. “You’re boring me, Sir. Now if you don’t mind either ravish me or let me go. I, unlike you, have work to do.” He gestured vaguely at the mess -- lingerie hanging from the chandelier, dildos stuffed into the couch, used condoms left hither and yon and, of course, the sex stains on everything.

“Did you just roll your eyes at me, brat?” Griffin’s voice changed from playful to dominating in a heartbeat.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Alfred sneered, rolling his eyes again, “it depends on whether you just asked me a really _stupid_ question. Sir.”

Griffin growled through his grin, relishing the way Alfred gasped a little in spite of the latter’s defiance. He yanked the other close to him, his big hands gripping the other’s slender hips. Then --

A buzzing sound interrupted them both. It was Griffin’s phone on the glass coffee table.

Griffin released Alfred and picked up his phone to see a text from Nora. It read:

“ **Angel, King and I are at the gate. Pls have *some* clothes on, Griff. Our angel is very jumpy rn.** ”

Griffin smirked. ‘Angel’ was Nora’s nickname for Michael, as in Saint Michael the Archangel, though the kid couldn’t be less like an archangel if he tried. More like a fallen angel with social anxiety. “Alfred, I’m gonna ask you one last time before I break out your French Maid outfit and order you to wear it for a week -- how old is the kid?”

“Eighteen, he’s eighteen,” Alfred blurted out as he hurried to the intercom to open the electronic lock on the gates for their guests.

Griffin watched him go, smirking as he imagined exactly how he was going to make his sassy little butler pay for his impertinence.

 _But first_ , he thought, glancing down at his all but naked self. _I need some clothes. Heavy emphasis on the word some_.


	2. Michael

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for past emotional abuse for Michael. Also Michael has severe Stygaphobia (fear of Hell) from his parents telling him he would go there because of his sexual proclivities (being a sexual sadist).
> 
> Nora Sutherlin looks like Rachel Weisz. Kingsley Edge looks like a slightly older Gaspard Ulliel.

Michael’s heart banged so hard it nearly burst out of his chest. His palms were sweating and he felt like a giant hand was squeezing his whole body. He leaned over and put his head between his knees. 

Was he really going to do this, stay for a whole summer with Griffin ‘richer than God, hotter than Hell’ Fiske, and the latter’s butler/concubine who was rumoured to have no hard limits when it came to serving his Master? 

Michael shook his head as the scruples his viciously conservative Catholic upbringing had seared into his mind came crawling back like venomous weeds. He was lost, he was a freak, he was damned, no one would ever love him, he deserved only hate because he was evil, wrong. Only evil people fantasized about hurting people for sexual pleasure. 

And Michael dreamed of hurting people all the time. Men and women both, squirming and crying from the pain he’d inflict on their unwilling-yet-willing bodies. The pleas for mercy. The gasps for more. 

_I’m not evil_ , he told himself gently but firmly as he calmed down. _I’m just different. Father S. is a sadist too and he’s the best man I know_.

He felt a small hand on settle his shoulder and the warmth of it sank through his t-shirt into his skin, a benediction to Michael’s frayed nerves. 

“Angel?” the one, the only, Mistress Nora Sutherlin asked him. “You know if you feel you can’t do this, there’s one word you can say to stop it, and I’ll have Kingsley drive us right back to Manhattan. Do you remember your safeword, angel?”

“‘Wings,’” Michael said, slowly sitting up again. “I’m not safeing out,” he explained. “I’m just letting you know I remember my safeword.”

“Good boy,” Nora said, petting his long black hair like a queen petting a faithful dog. “What do I always tell you?”

Michael squinched his face up, trying to remember. “‘Sodomy’s only an abomination if you’re doing it wrong. Bear down and then release. It’ll fit better.’”

A very French laugh spilled from the driver’s seat. “ _Merde alores, Maîtresse_ ,” Kingsley Edge chuckled. “And they call _me_ a corrupter of the innocent.”

“Shut up, King,” Nora told the Frenchman, kicking his seat. Then to Michael: “The other thing I told you.” 

“Um…” Michael frowned as he racked his brains. Something Nora had said when they’d first met… “‘No safeword can protect the heart.’”

Nora pointed her finger at his face. “Bingo, kiddo. I know when you see Griffin and Alfred you’re gonna go all goo-goo-eyed over them. And who can blame you? A sexy Irish switch and his adorable stuffy submissive? It’s enough to make any baby Dom go goo-goo-eyed. I wouldn’t even be surprised if, by the end of this summer, you were head over heels in love with both of them.”

“What, with both of them?” Michael shook his head. “I don’t think I could love two people at the same time.”

Nora gave a sharp one-note laugh. “It’s easier than you think, angel. Look at King and me. We’re both of us in love with the same blond slut, your sainted Father Sterns. Or as King and I know him, Søren.”

“And _la Maîtresse_ and I, we are in love with each other,” Kingsley said, turning around in his seat, showing Michael his villainously good-looking profile. “Right, _mon ami_?”

“Eah.” Nora shrugged. “I’m not in love with you so much as I’m in tolerance with you.”

“You are cruel, _cherie_.”

“And you love it, you old French whore.”

“Eah.” Kingsley gave an incredibly bored shrug. “I don’t love it so much as tolerate it.”

Michael watched the two’s back-and-forth, understanding dawning on him as he saw the incredibly special erotic bond between Nora, Kingsley and, even though the priest wasn’t here with them, Søren. Maybe…just maybe, Michael would be lucky enough to find two people to love and to love him back.

Nora peeked around Michael’s shoulder out the car window. “Ahh, speak of the Devil’s Spawn…”

Michael gasped when he saw the two people he was going to spend the rest of the summer with, being trained as a Dom.

A slender, delicate-featured man with shaggy brown hair that belied his stuffy butler’s livery, stepped out of the door first. And right behind him appeared his aesthetic opposite, though just as achingly pretty: 

Muscular, with brutally good-looking features and wearing only a red kilt and black Doc Marten ankle boots -- Griffin Fiske.

Nora gave an unimpressed scoff. “Look at those little punks. They’re already trying to seduce you, angel.”

“Is that what they’re doing?” Michael asked, then mentally cringed at the hopefulness in his voice. He really wanted to be seduced by the two men standing on the steps of the biggest most gorgeous mansion he’d ever seen in real life. But that was just a ridiculous, beautiful dream. Ridiculous and beautiful, just like those two young men on the steps waiting for him.

“Angel,” Nora said in her Domme tone and Michael turned to face her. “Remember what I told you --”

“‘No safeword can protect the heart,’” Michael sighed, already feeling the sting of the premature loss of his non-existent boyfriends. 

“No, no, the other thing -- _you_ know,” Nora said, with a wicked smirk on her lovely face as she hooked a finger under his chin and forced him to meet her big dark eyes. 

Michael gulped as he always did when faced with Nora’s petite raven-haired, ivory-skinned beauty. She looked like a grown-up, naughty version of Snow White -- Michael’s favourite fairytale princess. “The uh…the sodomy thing?”

“That. I don’t know about you, kid, but I’m really anal about my anal,” Nora said. “Only my editor, Zach Easton -- gorgeous Brit, dark hair, blue eyes -- gets it perfect. He’s even got Søren beat there.”

Michael shivered, half with admiration, half with envy. Didn’t Nora know _any_ ugly people who were bad at sex?

“ _Sacré bleu_ , would you look at them now, _Maîtresse_?” Kinsley laughed and Michael snuck another peek at the odd couple on the steps of the mansion and the sight he was greeted with caused him to burst out laughing too. Because --

Griffin, the kilt-wearing, muscle-bound Irish hottie, was now making out with his equally adorable butler, dipping the latter into an Old Hollywood style kiss.

Feeling immensely better, Michael grabbed his big duffle bag and opened the car door.

“Angel?” Nora asked, placing her hand on his arm. “Do you want King and I to come in with you, help you get settled?”

“No thanks, I’ll be okay,” Michael blurted out in a rush, giving Nora a quick kiss on the cheek and launching himself out of the car. 

He blushed as he heard Nora and Kingsley’s faint laughter as the grey Rolls Royce pulled out of the gravel driveway. He hadn’t been at all subtle, had he? Though, looking at the butler and the trust fund baby macking on each other…?

Michael was sure he’d fit right in with Alfred and Griffin.


	3. Alfred

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: For past child abuse and a past suicide attempt.

Alfred gasped as Griffin pulled him upright again after their Old Hollywood style kiss. In his six years living with Griffin as the latter’s ‘butler’ he still couldn’t get used to Griffin’s spontaneous kisses. Or Griffin’s spontaneous anythings. He doubted he ever would, and he didn’t want to. 

“Um…hi?” 

Alfred tore his gaze away from his Master’s gorgeous caramel brown eyes to fasten it on the new speaker -- the young man that Griffin and he were supposed to train in all things kink this summer. Alfred’s own green eyes went wide as he took him in. For --

The boy, Michael, was unspeakably, heart-wrenchingly, _sinfully_ lovely. His long silky black hair fell over one side of his pale, pretty face, while he observed them shyly with large eyes so dark and fathomless they could make any man lose their religion. His simple mall-of-America clothes seemed to hang off his slender body which was off kilter from carrying that massive duffle bag that had to weigh at least half as much as he did.

“Let me to get that for you, sir,” Alfred offered, taking a step forward. The boy looked momentarily terrified and clutched his duffle-bag to his chest as though it were his firstborn child.

“No thanks, I’m good,” he blurted out so quickly the words jumbled together. Then, blushing furiously at his own abruptness, he shot the older man a quick smile and said: “You’re Alfred, right? Like the butler in _Batman_?”

Alfred suppressed a smile as the poor little guy blushed even redder, obviously mortified that he’d outed himself as a pop-culture geek. But Griffin, bless him, stepped right in at the exact right moment:

“That’s right, kid,” Griffin slid his big hand around the back of Alfred’s neck and squeezed gently. “Batman was the first guy I ever had a crush on. I just so happened to have a best friend from collage with the most butler-y name of all fucking time…” he paused tactfully so that Alfred could supply his full name:

“Alfred Sebastian Jamison.”

“You see?” Griffin exclaimed pulling Alfred close as Michael giggled. “This guy was born to be a butler. Or at least…he was born to be _my_ butler,” he murmured softly into Alfred’s ear.

Alfred’s eyelashes were fluttering closed and he could already feel his knees going weak, as his body began to succumb to Griffin’s charms… 

He controlled himself with an effort, straightening up, gently extricating himself from Griffin’s hold. He had to think of Michael who was standing in the hot sun, his skinny arms straining with carrying the weight of his duffle-bag, watching them both canoodle, no doubt feeling very awkward and left out.

“Come, Michael,” Alfred said, in his most pompous butler-y tones, “I will show you to your room.”

He did an about face and Griffin gave him a playful swat on his rear. Alfred absorbed that, like he absorbed everything outrageous and inappropriate about his beloved Master and led young Michael into the mansion, Griffin following behind them.

Alfred patiently waited at the foot of the main spiral staircase as Michael did a slow twirl, looking at the lavish, cathedral-like foyer, still squeezing his duffle-bag to his thin chest. The boy looked so much like a lost angel expelled from Paradise, clutching that huge bag as though it contained everything he owned. 

_Which_ , Alfred thought with a pang, _it probably did_. Mistress Nora had given Griffin and Alfred the cliff-notes version on what happened between Michael and his strict Catholic parents. 

Two years ago, Michael’s mother had snooped on Michael’s browser history and found the damning evidence that her son was into the BDSM lifestyle. Not just that, but Michael needed to dominate, hurt and humiliate others to even feel sexual pleasure himself. She’d freaked out, told Michael’s father when the latter had gotten home, and both of them had disowned the boy, thrown him out of the house, locking the door. 

In shock, Michael had walked the five miles from his now former home to Sacred Heart church, which Father Marcus Sterns (aka Søren) always left unlocked. Michael had stumbled up to the huge stained glass window depicting his namesake casting the Devil into Hell. A crack zigzagged through the jewel-like image. And in that fissure was a shard of red glass about the size of a razor blade. The moonlight shone through it and Michael had taken that red shard and --

Luckily Father Sterns had just been in his office in the church hallway, and heard the boy scream. The priest had rushed into the sacristy where Michael lay bleeding, held the boy’s sliced wrists, stopping the flow of blood with his own fingers. He’d rode with Michael in the ambulance, stayed with him the entire ten days Michael spent in hospital.

Michael’s parents hung up when the hospital tried to reach them to tell them their sixteen-year-old child had tried to commit suicide. They never called to see if he was dead or alive, either. Father Sterns took Michael in after the hospital released him, gave him a room in the priory. Two years later, Michael finished his Senior year at Sacred Heart High, and had won an Arts scholarship to Princeton University. Michael was headed to university in the fall, so this summer was his last chance to be trained as a Dom, trained to harness his sadistic impulses into something seamless, beautiful. 

Alfred felt goosebumps thinking about what he and Griffin could help Michael become. And, then maybe…after they’d trained Michael to be the perfect Dom, a caring sadist -- who would hurt but never, ever harm his submissives -- the three of them could live together, happily ever after.

Alfred bit the inside of his cheek. He and the Master were already getting so attached to Michael…

When Alfred led Michael to the room he was to be staying in, the young man stared about the place in admiration.

“This place is bigger than my whole living room,” Michael breathed. Then the happiness drained from his lovely face as he likely remembered that the living room he was talking about was no longer his. He sat down on the bed.

“This is your home now, Michael,” Alfred told him gently as he sat beside him. 

The boy rubbed his eyes with the insides of his wrists, seemed to remember himself and gathered his arms to his chest. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “Nora -- she probably told you and Griffin what happened, with -- about my scars.”

Alfred nodded, his heart aching with sympathy.

Michael sniffed, and rubbed upraised scar on one of his wrists with his thumb. “I wish so much that I could take it back, you know,” he whispered. “God, they’re so hideous.”

“Michael,” Alfred said, cupping the young man’s chin in his hand, “there’s absolutely nothing about you that’s hideous.”

They both jumped a little when Griffin flounced into the room and flopped backwards across Michael’s bed. “Who’s hideous?” 

Michael shrank to the headboard, pulling his knees close to his chest.

“Søren is, of course,” Alfred said, shooting a small smile at Michael, who relaxed a little. 

“Yeah,” Griffin sighed happily, staring at the ceiling, his arms dangling over the bed. “He’s gross.”

Michael actually giggled, and Griffin turned his head lazily towards him. “You like your room, kid?”

“Yes, it’s beautiful,” the young man began to gush, only to snap his mouth shut and turn red. Alfred recognized with a pang, that Michael was all too used to being mocked for showing overt emotions.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” Griffin said easily, looking back at the ceiling. “It used to be my old baby-room.”

“You mean ‘ _nursery_ ,’ don’t you, Sir?” Alfred asked with as much disdain as he could muster. Once again, out of his peripheral vision, he saw Michael give that tiny smile, like lightning striking very far away.

“Why are you always criticizing me, Alfred?” Griffin said, mock-mournfully. “What did I ever do to you?”

“Just last week you left me hogtied in the living room while you made yourself a sandwich that would have done Paul Bunyan honour.”

“I offered to make you one.”

Alfred wrinkled his nose. “With a quart of mayonnaise dripping out of it? No thank you.”

Michael was shaking with suppressed laughter now.

“What?” Griffin asked innocently. “It’s yummy.”

“It’s also fattening.” Alfred prodded Griffin in his washboard abs, eliciting a squeak from the latter. “You’re getting pudgy, Sir.”

This time Michael did burst out laughing. 

Like an roused lion, Griffin rolled over, pinning Alfred to the bed. The slimmer man squirmed a little, just for the pleasure of having his beautiful Master press his wrists deeper into the mattress.

“You’re just asking for it today, aren’t you, brat?” Griffin murmured against Alfred’s temple. Then to Michael: “Hey, kid. You wanna watch me beat the tar out of Alfred in my dungeon?” 

Michael’s eyes went round. He nodded vigorously. “Can I…” he trailed off.

“Yeah, Mick?” Griffin said kindly.

Michael blushed as he tucked a heavy hank of hair behind his ear. “Can I help you beat him?”


	4. Michael

Griffin’s dungeon was like nothing Michael had ever seen, not even on the kink websites he’d frequented back when he was a repressed teenage kid (technically he was still a teenager, but now that he was eighteen he thought of himself as an adult) coming to terms with his sexuality. The dungeons on those websites were dark, and cold, with black latex sex harnesses dangling from the ceilings and cold silver handcuffs. They looked like something out of the _Hellraiser_ movies, which Michael loved. But Griffin’s kink dungeon which was a huge refurbished room in his otherwise unfinished basement, was much like the man himself, sleek, modern, sexy -- certainly not cold or intimidating. (Michael suspected Søren’s dungeon looked a lot closer to that particular description.)

Michael did a slow twirl, taking in everything -- the walls, painted a rich warm royal purple, were trimmed with silver-mirror-like borders. On the walls hung riding crops of every size and colour, along with whips and floggers. On display on heavy oaken shelves that lined the wall were dildos ranging in size from the intrusive to the unthinkable, underneath were drawers that likely contained other finer instruments of torture for pleasure. In the center of the room was a huge four-poster bed with black silk sheets and green velvet curtains with long silken ropes that would be perfect for binding a willing submissive to a bedpost.

Michael picked up one of the silky tassels, feeling his insides melt as he realized how many times Griffin must’ve done exactly that to Alfred in this room…

“What do you think, Mick?” 

Michael whirled around to face the speaker and gasped when he saw Griffin’s transformation. It wasn’t that Griffin hadn’t been absolutely sexy in that red kilt and punk ankle boots, because he had. Of course he had. But this…this was on a whole other level of scorching hotness. Because in place of the kilt were low-slung black leather pants, showing off Griffin’s lower stomach and hipbones…

With a almighty effort, Michael dragged his gaze up from Griffin’s perfectly chiselled abdomen to his equally perfectly chiselled face and -- Michael was, if it were possible, even more aroused by Griffin’s face than any other part of him, as gorgeous as the rest of him was. Because Griffin had outlined his warm brown eyes with smudgy black eyeliner, making him look ten years younger -- as young as Michael himself. 

“You look fucking hot,” Michael told Griffin. He stared right into Griffin’s eyes, refusing to blush or be ashamed of stating what he thought. 

Incredibly, it was Griffin who lowered his eyelashes shyly and blushed. “Oh, thank you,” he said, smiling like a bashful schoolgirl. “But I meant the room, what do you think of the room?”

“Oh.” Michael kept the eye-contact up, relishing the way his penetrating gaze made the older man -- a professional Dom at that, turn even redder. “It’s pretty fucking hot too.”

Griffin laughed, and padded forward on bare feet. “I’m glad you approve, Mick -- do you mind that I call you ‘Mick?’ Michael’s so formal.”

“Not at all.” Michael smirked, earning himself another blush and eyelash-fluttering from Griffin. “I was getting sick of hearing my full name anyway.”

His parents had always spat his name out with such venom -- he was more than happy to have a new-sounding name.

The door was pushed open again and Alfred walked in, still wearing his butler-outfit. Michael breathed a sigh of relief that he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t dressed up for the scene. Alfred took one look at Griffin and gave an amused scoff at his wardrobe change. 

“You like?” Griffin grinned and did a little bump and grind. “What, nothing?” he demanded as Alfred simply raised an eyebrow at his Master’s little dance. “Seriously, I put a lot of thought into these outfits.”

“If by ‘outfits,’ you mean the single garments you wear,” Alfred’s pale gaze raked up and down Griffin’s body, “then, you deserve compliments not for your fashion sense but for your body itself.”

Griffin tilted his head and gave a slow, dangerous grin. “Are you saying I’m _hot_ , Alfred?”

Alfred huffed prissily and didn’t answer.

“’Cause, that’s,” Griffin took a step closer, “kinda what it _sounds_ like you’re saying…”

Michael was looking back and forth between them like he was watching a tennis match.

“I will admit…” Alfred rolled his eyes, looking pained, “…that you are a particularly _well-arranged_ waste of molecules, Master Griffin.”

Griffin nodded, pursing his lips adorably. “I’ll take it. And I’ll take _you_. Clothes,” he snapped his fingers and pointed at Alfred. “Off.”

Alfred sighed the sigh to end all sighs, rolled his eyes again and yanked his bow tie loose. 

Griffin chuckled and wagged his chin at Alfred’s seemingly relentless brattiness. “Keep it up, love. Keep. It. Up.” Then to Michael: “Mick, how do you feel about putting Alfred on the St Andrew’s cross?”

Michael’s heart did a back flip to land somewhere in the vicinity of his groin. “Um. I feel very good about it, Griffin.” He felt a little shiver at saying Griffin’s name out loud -- it was the first time he had.

“You hear that, Alfred?” Griffin said proudly, still looking at Michael. “Mick feels very good about putting you on the St. Andrew’s cross.”

“I’m not deaf, Sir,” Alfred drawled, shrugging out of his waistcoat, lazily unbuttoning his shirt. 

Griffin turned and stalked to one of the drawers under the shelves. Michael watched him take out an iron box with a lock on it. Griffin took the small key pendent that hung around his neck and unlocked the box, taking out what was inside. Michael caught a glimpse of a pale green leather strap, with a gold buckle on it. Michael gasped when he recognised what it was. 

Alfred’s sub collar. 

Griffin stepped up to Alfred, wrapped the collar around his throat, buckling it at the base of his neck. With that final click of the collar-buckle, Michael felt the atmosphere in the room change, as the air does before a storm.

Griffin was not the playful goofball anymore, but a powerful Dom. And Alfred was no longer the snide gentleman, but a willing sub.

“Safeword?” Griffin asked sharply.

Alfred’s long-lashed eyes remained downcast. “‘Conundrum.’” 

“Look at me,” Griffin ordered and Alfred obeyed, his lips trembling prettily. Griffin took hold of Alfred’s chin. “Who do you belong to?”

“You, Sir.” Alfred answered. “Completely and unequivocally.”

“That’s right.” Griffin slid his hand around Alfred’s throat, squeezing just enough so that Alfred’s collar dug into his neck. He grabbed Alfred’s shirt and ripped it open, tearing the remaining buttons. He slid the shirt down Alfred’s bare arms and Michael sucked in a breath as he saw what lay underneath…

Alfred’s pale slender body was lovely, yes, but lovelier still was the huge tattoo of a griffin on Alfred’s back that curled around his ribcage.

“Whoa,” Michael said. “ _Cool_.” He winced. Cool just wasn’t a spectacular enough word to describe the beautiful artwork inked into Alfred’s skin -- 

“Isn’t it?” Griffin said, just seeming to notice Michael was there. “Come over here, Mick, check it out.”

Michael stepped closer, eagerly reaching out to touch Alfred’s tattoo, pulling his hand back only for Griffin to catch it and place it back on Alfred’s inked skin.

“You can touch him, Mick,” Griffin said. “I _want_ you to touch him.”

So Michael did. He ran his fingertips over the tattoo on Alfred’s back and ribs causing him to shiver. Griffin followed suit, tracing Alfred’s ribs, his hand occasionally brushing against Michael’s. Michael heard Alfred give a muffled whimper.

“He’s so ticklish,” Griffin said, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Aren’t you, Alfred?”

“I am, Sir,” Alfred said meekly, his gaze cast down and a light blush blooming on his face.

But although Michael loved humiliating Alfred and filed that little fact about the latter being ticklish in the back his mind for later, he was more interested in Alfred’s tattoo at the moment. “It’s such beautiful work,” Michael murmured. “I wish…” he snapped his mouth shut. For almost two years Michael had had to bear the twin dreadful reminders of his suicide attempt at the lowest point of his short but painful life. Those scars -- how many times had he hid them under wristbands or doodled overtop of them in permanent black marking pen. He’d come up with designs for tattoos to cover them, but tattoos were expensive and Michael had no way to pay for the getting and upkeep of even the smallest of tattoos. 

“Lilah’s coming over in a couple weeks to add another vine to my arm tattoos and to touch up Alfred’s tattoo -- walk as we talk, Mick -- ” Griffin gripped Alfred by the back of the neck again, leading him to the huge St. Andrew’s cross in the corner of the room, Michael tripping behind both of them like a child trails behind his parents.

“Lilah?” Michael prompted, as Griffin lifted Alfred’s wrist to the luxurious leather cuff and buckled it in, then repeated the process.

“Lilah Larson, tattoo artist extraordinaire,” Griffin explained. “And a good friend of mine. She’s in the scene, she works at Sin Tax -- a more mainstream version of the 8th Circle -- as a bartender. You ask her for any tattoo you want, Mick, on me.”

“Are you serious?” Michael asked, breaking into a grin.

“As a heart attack,” Griffin said, stepping back, surveying Alfred’s slender body strapped in cruciform on the St. Andrew’s cross. “What do you think, Mick?”

Michael took a deep breath as he already felt the first surge of arousal, even just looking at a willing submissive trussed up, just waiting to be dominated, waiting to take everything his Dom had to offer. “I want my own sub,” he breathed.

“In time, Mick,” Griffin said. “But for now I’ll share mine with you. Sound good?”

Michael nodded, biting his lip, his eyes stinging. He had no words for all the kindness Griffin and Alfred had shown him in the short while he had been here -- far more than his parents had shown him his whole life.

“Good,” Griffin nodded in an adorable that’s-that sort of way. “Now hand me that flogger.”


	5. Griffin

Was there anything more fun than looking at his lovely Alfred strapped to a St. Andrew’s cross? _Ahh, yes_ , Griffin thought. Flogging his lovely Alfred as he was strapped to a St. Andrew’s cross.

Griffin raised the flogger and brought down the suede flails down on Alfred’s slender back, bringing up thin red welts on the latter’s pale skin. Alfred sucked in air through his teeth. 

Poor little thing, he hated pain. He was a submissive, not a hardcore masochist. Which was lucky, because Griffin was not a hardcore sadist. But he loved seeing Alfred up on the St. Andrew’s cross, loved drawing the delicious gasps and yelps of pain from him, knowing how Alfred was giving him everything he had.

Griffin drew back the flogger again and whacked Alfred again, hard, in the left side of his ribcage. This time Alfred cried out, his scream tapering off into a shuddering whimper. The third blow fell on Alfred’s right flank, the fourth in the center of his back. Griffin painted Alfred’s back with crosses of welts then, the flogger being his artist’s brush. Alfred groaned in agony and Griffin loved him more than ever. How could he not, when Alfred was giving him everything?

“You’re doing so well, Alfred,” Griffin said in gentle tones, as he lightened up on his blows, which caused Alfred to squirm and pant. Griffin felt something primal stir in his insides at the sight, at the sounds. “You think you can take a bit more pain, baby?”

Griffin watched Alfred breathe deeply and slowly, ribs heaving. There were several red welts on his back, but not too bad -- Griffin had definitely seen worse, _way worse_ , in the Pit of the 8th Circle. 

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good boy,” Griffin purred. “Now to play a little game. Simple game. Pick a number between one and five.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me, Alfred. It’s okay, just pick a number.”

“Okay, Sir. ‘Three.’”

“Right in the middle.” Griffin grinned. “Excellent. Mick, hand me the rattan cane.”

Alfred’s whole body stiffened in fear.

“Why did you make him pick a number?” Michael asked as he brought the cane outstretched in his hands like he was making an offering to a god. A god of sex. Griffin liked the imagery.

“Because…” Griffin drawled, twirling the rattan cane in the air, which caused a whistling sound. “When you pick a number, you don’t know what you’re getting. Five blows with the cane? Five orgasms? Five hours of tickling?” He smirked as Alfred shuddered. “Oh, yes, I know your weakness, baby. And since you picked ‘three’ as your number, it’ll be just three hits with the cane. Are you ready?”

Griffin twirled the cane, causing that whistling sound which he knew good and well was unnerving to submissives who were not big on pain. Alfred took a few more deep breaths. Then:

“Yes, Sir.”

The cane made immediate, stinging contact with Alfred’s back, just underneath his shoulder blades. Alfred let out a choked, guttural cry and his knees buckled. He would have fallen had the leather cuffs not been holding him upright.

“I know, baby,” Griffin said soothingly, even as he swiped the cane through the air again, “I know. You’re doing so good, you’re such a good boy. Just two more. Ready?”

Griffin was aware that the boy, Michael, was watching the scene intently. He knew that Mick was a different sort of Dom than Griffin was -- a true sadist, but he was determined to set an extra good example for him. And maybe the other Doms in the 8th Circle would’ve teased him if they knew he was abiding by SSC (Safe, Sane and Consensual) rules instead of RACK (Risk Aware Consensual Kink) rules. “SSC rules are just a step above being vanilla,” was what Brad Wolff (nicknamed ‘Chad’ Wolff by the denizens of the 8th Circle because of his toxic masculinity) the sixth-level Dom to Griffin’s seventh-level, always said. But Griffin didn’t give two fucks what Brad thought. Hell, he didn’t even give _one_ fuck.

“Ready, Sir.” Alfred interrupted Griffin’s thoughts, and Griffin brought the cane down against the middle of Alfred’s back, three inches down from the last stroke which had raised up into a lovely red weal.

Alfred let out a pained grunt -- it was clear he was gritting his teeth, to keep from crying out as he had before. Griffin’s heart swelled with love for Alfred even as he thwacked him again with the cane one final time, three inches underneath the second weal, on the small of Alfred’s back. 

The wounded cry that tore out of Alfred raised the hairs on the back of Griffin’s neck, and the way the former sagged in his bonds caused Griffin’s heart to give an awful pound against his ribcage. Setting down the cane, he hurried over to support Alfred, to unbuckle him from the cuffs.

“All done, all done, baby,” Griffin murmured into Alfred’s hair as he cuddled the other man’s slender, naked body to his own bare, muscular chest. “You did so good. So good. Mick,” Griffin said, his tone changing from soft and comforting to take-charge, “go to the mini fridge by the medical play table and grab me a bottle of orange juice.”

Michael hurried to obey. 

Alfred made an adorable little mewl and tried to bury his face in Griffin’s chest as the latter was holding him Pieta-style -- like an adult-sized baby. _Ooh. Bad metaphor_ , Griffin thought with a wry smile. He’d seen enough of the real thing toddling around the Pit of the 8th Circle. Not that Griffin judged, but he was so not into that. He preferred a pot of gold at the end of his rainbow. Not a pile of shi --

“Here’s your OJ’s,” Michael said, dropping gracefully beside Griffin handing him one of two cold glass bottles, misty with condensation. “I thought you should have one too. Because Doms need Aftercare too, Nora says.”

“Thanks Mick,” Griffin beamed at Michael, inadvertently causing the boy to blush but not look away -- Mick was getting better with his ‘Dom stare’ all the time. 

“Baby, here take a sip…” Griffin brought the mouth of the bottle to Alfred’s mouth and the latter turned his face away again like a little child.

“Not _orange juice_ , Master Griffin,” Alfred complained. “It’s like liquid candy.”

“It’s good for rehydration,” Griffin said matter-of-factly. “I looked it up on Wiki.”

“ _Wikipedia_ ,” Alfred pronounced, wrinkling his perfect little nose, causing Griffin’s stomach to do that twisty-pirouette thing it did when he realized just how lost he would be without his adorable little Blackadder, “is not a resource for researching one’s nutritional quandaries. It is pornography for pseudo-intellectuals.”

“Is that so, Jellybean?” 

“You know I despise that moniker, Sir.”

“I know, Jellybean. But safe out or suck it up. And by ‘suck it up,’ I mean this juice right now, Griffin Jr. later.”

Alfred sighed and obediently drank some orange juice. Griffin did likewise. When Alfred was finished he said: “I pray nightly for the end to your tyranny, Master Griffin.”

Griffin laughed as he hefted Alfred over his shoulder, young Michael hot on his heels, as they all headed to the bed.

“Why, didn’t you know, Jellybean?” Griffin threw Alfred down on the mattress and crawled over him, pinning him down. 

“God’s a sadist too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An A/N about the terms SSC (Safe, Sane and Consensual) rules and RACK (Risk Aware Consensual Kink) rules:
> 
> SCC is considered an outdated term, essentially because it's very subjective -- what's "safe and sane" to one person may feel extremely frightening to another. It's frequently mocked these days as a term that's used to make BDSM sound more palatable to people who are put off by it.
> 
> RACK on the other hand, covers all the bases and assumes there is SOME risk in a BDSM scene and empowers both partners to set better limits. This isn't just limited to "hard" stuff like knifeplay, FYI, it's for _anything_ that carries any kind of physical or emotional risk (for instance, a punishment scene carries the risk of upsetting your partner as well as physically hurting or scarring them).
> 
> Also, I only just learned all this _after_ posting this chapter. I still have a lot to learn about the BDSM lifestyle and community. I'd like to thank foggys_cupcake_girl and her irl friend for the information on the SSC and RACK terms.


	6. Alfred

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first time writing smut EVER, so please be kind to me XD

When his scored back made contact with the plush mattress, Alfred cried out in pain only for Griffin to swallow his scream with a punishing kiss, the force of which pressed Alfred’s head into bed. Alfred moaned, his pain mixing with pleasure as Griffin caught both his wrists and slid them along the mattress up, up and up --

Only for a new pair of hands, significantly smaller and smoother than Griffin’s to seize and pin them above Alfred’s head. 

“M-Master Griffin?” Alfred gasped. He tipped his head up to see Michael’s pretty face above him a look of complete and unadulterated lust on his face.

“Mm…Junior needs a kink lesson,” Griffin murmured, kissing down Alfred’s throat, collarbone, chest. Alfred moaned as little shock-waves of pleasure rippled from his heart, to his stomach, to his groin. Griffin noticed Alfred’s arousal tenting his trousers and smirked. “Uh-uh, none of that,” he gave Alfred a tweak in the side and the resulting ticklish sensation caused Alfred to squeal, arching his back as playful pain needled through his balls from holding back his orgasm. 

Humiliating little pants escaped him and tears stung the backs of his eyes. “I despise you, Master Griffin,” he whined, squirming as well as he could with Griffin straddling his thighs and Michael holding down his wrists. 

“Aww! Poor _baby_ , I _know_ ,” Griffin mocked as he traced Alfred’s torso with a maddeningly gentle touch, tapping, poking and scouring at his chest, ribs, sides and belly. “You despise me so much you clean the entire mansion with a toothbrush while wearing your French Maid outfit whenever I give you the puppy-dog eyes.”

“In my defence, Sir,” Alfred whimpered, squirming half-heartedly. “Your puppy-dog eyes should be outlawed, they’re so irresistible.”

“I know…I’m just _too_ precious,” Griffin sighed even as he kneaded Alfred’s belly to high-pitch keening and giggling from the latter, “It's like a curse or something.”

“You’re the curse, Sir -- _fu-huck_!” Alfred screamed and writhed as the pain and pleasure warred in his body -- pain winning out as his balls throbbed from holding back yet another orgasm. 

“Is that so?” Griffin said, running his fingers soothingly down Alfred’s sides. “How about this -- _now_ you can cum.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Already?” he sneered. “You’re going soft, Master Griffin. I don’t think I will.”

Alfred bit back a smirk as he heard Michael gasp. 

“Can he do that?” the boy hissed in a loud whisper. Alfred all but snorted, Griffin laughed outright.

“He can _try-y_ ,” Griffin sing-songed, dancing his fingertips down Alfred’s belly to his belt buckle, “but he’s going to fail. Aren’t you, baby?”

Alfred narrowed his eyes at the most gorgeous Switch in the whole of New York (though Mistress Nora would have something to say about that if she ever heard him say that), unfastened his belt buckle and pulled it loose and tossed the belt over his shoulder to thud on the carpeted floor. “Bring it, bitch.”

Griffin yanked off Alfred’s trousers, they followed the same route as the belt. Then he flipped Alfred over onto his stomach and, lifting him up by the hips, slid his boxers down to his knees.

“Hey, Mick, get over here,” Griffin called, working Alfred’s legs apart as much as the boxers around his knees would allow him to. “Kink lesson.” 

Michael let go of Alfred’s wrists and scrambled to the back of him with Griffin. Alfred clutched the sheets to ground himself. His face burned as he felt Michael’s hands join Griffins, holding Alfred’s hips -- feel the boy’s slim fingers intertwine with his Master’s thicker ones.

“So you see how I haven’t taken Alfred’s underwear off all the way, kid?” Griffin asked.

“Yup,” Michael replied chirpily. “I know why you left them like that too.”

Griffin cackled. “By all means, Mick, share with the rest of the class.”

“Underwear around the knees, equals poor man’s thigh stocks,” Michael said. “Makes the passage tighter for fucking. Nora and Kingsley demonstrated for me back at the 8th Circle”

Griffin whistled. “You were taught by the best, then. By the way, who was the…ahem…test dummy…so to speak?” 

“I’m not a-spossed to say,” Mick said, sounding adorably childlike.

“Ah, was King, I knew it,” Griffin said flippantly. “That Frog gets all the fun. Why doesn’t Nora force me into pink satin panties and fuck me anymore?”

“A-HEM,” Alfred snapped. “The better question, Sir, is why aren’t _you_ fucking _me_? I’m getting bor --” he broke off with a yelp as Griffin slapped his upraised ass.

“The _Doms_ are _talking_ , little boy,” Griffin said snidely. “I’m tellin ya, Mick, this sub of mine, no respect at all.”

“Respect is earned, you over-privileged fetus.” Alfred shot back.

“Oh-ho-ho, that does it, Jellybean,” Griffin said. “You really going to get it now.”

“Promises, promises,” Alfred mocked. “Thus far, Sir -- I, and my ass, remain unimpressed --” he broke off once more with a squeal as he felt a finger penetrate him. Then another. And then another. Alfred gasped and panted at the sensations, as the fingers began to move in him.

“About time, Sir,” he panted, still trying to be flippant.

“Um, that’s not me, Alfred,” Griffin’s tone sounded impressed. “Wow, Mick, you just went for it, didn’t you? I’d doff my hat to you, if I was the type to wear hats.”

“Don’t congratulate me yet,” Michael said, sounding nervous and proud all at once. “I haven’t found his G-spot yet.” 

Alfred’s face went hot as a summer sidewalk. They were talking about him as though he wasn’t even there. It was so embarrassing. Humiliating. Degrading, even.

Alfred wanted more of that.

“The G-spot is a myth, Sir,” he pontificated in his snottiest tones. “Anyone who says otherwise is either a liar or an idio -- ”

_OH_.

For, young Michael had just found that soft special spot inside Alfred and was kneading it, causing wave after wave of pleasure to course through his body. 

Alfred shuddered as Michael wrenched orgasm after orgasm from his unwilling-but-secretly-willing body, every minute drawn out into ecstatic eternity. 

Alfred heaved and trembled as hot tears ran down his cheeks and hot semen ran down his thighs -- he remained in the humiliating all-fours position, but just barely. His arms and legs were shaky from all the pleasure he had received, all the pain, not to mention all the anticipation of more of both sensations to come.

“How many orgasms was that?” Griffin asked, laughing over the sounds that Alfred emitted that the word ‘moan’ was woefully inadequate to describe. Where was Nora and her Søren-sized vocabulary when you needed them? “That was definitely more than three.”

“Uh, I lost count,” Michael said, sounding panicky again.

“Six,” Alfred gasped, then giggled. “Is that all you’ve got, Mick?”

Reader, it was not.


End file.
